Is There Somewhere Else To Be
by define-serenity
Summary: [Barry/Eddie] When he first lays eyes on Eddie, led inside the dark room by one of the rookie officers, he doesn't recognize the man who's been steadily piecing him back together. Gone is Detective Pretty Boy, the golden everyman man's man; all that's left is a disorderly mess of body, blood, and tears. A near empty shell. Hollowed out. (OUR ROAD IS LONG VERSE)


Barry/Eddie, 1756 words, pg-rated

set in the same 'verse as my other one. can be read as a standalone.

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**_Is There Somewhere Else To Be_**

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When he first lays eyes on Eddie, led inside the dark room by one of the rookie officers, he doesn't recognize the man who's been steadily piecing him back together. Gone is Detective Pretty Boy, the golden everyman man's man; all that's left is a disorderly mess of body, blood, and tears. A near empty shell. Hollowed out.

"Eddie," he calls, tempted to place a hand on his shoulder even though he's not supposed to, _procedure and all_. He lowers his forensics kit to the steel table and crouches down next to a shadow of the man he knows; the light in his eyes has vanished, replacing it a thousand-yard stare, face covered in blood splatter, red rained down his usually pristine white shirt. He's almost afraid to examine him further.

He picked up some of the details around the station; hostage situation, an innocent victim, Eddie killing the suspect. Up until half an hour ago he'd been out cold in a hospital bed, healing from the three bullets he took for Joe from the same suspect. Caitlin had fussed, stitched him up in between short angry outbursts, but no matter his injuries he wished he'd been there to take the guy down. He wished he'd stood by Eddie's side to take whatever invisible injury befell him. Because he's scarred, this man of his.

"I've got it from here, Sam," he sounds over his shoulder, and soon the door closes on them.

There's a weight that's not usually there when they're alone, a crisp and steady silence, time ticking by; Eddie's meant to chase that away, not make this harder. There's so much in him that wants to call Eddie out, that wants to shout at him and try to make sense of this. Why did he go in without backup? Why didn't he call Joe? _What was he thinking_? He reckons this is how Caitlin must feel whenever he risks his life without considering the consequences, and now that he's on the receiving end of that idle disregard, he makes a mental note to treat her more kindly.

Because this is unbearable.

"Eddie." He quietly slips into black neoprenes before he squeezes around Eddie's arm. "Hey," a lingering yet meager hope in his voice that the man he cares for hasn't vanished completely, that he's in there somewhere, that he can make his way back to him through the dark.

Eddie's head turns, eyes falling to his. "Bar."

He smiles, though it doesn't quite reach all the parts of him that try to seem convincing. "It's me."

Eddie faces away, staring back into infinity.

Despair needles across his chest, tiny pinpricks at the back of his neck; he has no idea what to do. Eddie's usually the one who knows what to say, to offer words of advice and practical solutions, show him a way to deal with anxiety and avoid panic attacks. He never learned how to do that for Eddie. And here, in his current state, he can't hold him in his arms, can't kiss the pain away, they can't fall into bed and leave all the pain stained in the sheets, in the clash between their bodies, in a mix of pain and pleasure they've come so close to perfecting.

"You understand what I have to do." He swallows hard, bile rising up his throat. "If you'd rather have someone else–"

"Someone else from our extensive forensic team?" Eddie huffs, a twitch to a corner of his mouth, but there's no real bite to it. No real Eddie Thawne behind it.

He draws a hand down his face. "I can find you someone else," he says, but thinks _someone who doesn't know you_, someone without a personal stake in your emotional well being, someone who's not hurting just as much as you are right now. He doesn't know if he can do this, be the person Eddie's been to him since he woke up from that coma.

"No." Eddie shakes his head. "No, that's okay. I'm glad it's you."

Taking a deep breath oxygen doesn't quite reach his lungs, but he stands up and grabs his camera, licking along his teeth, bracing himself against the coming onslaught. He needs to be the strong one now, for Eddie, for his own sake; he'll see this through and get Eddie home, and he'll figure things out from there.

"I'm going to take some picture first," he says. "to–"

"I know what you have to do, Allen." Eddie slaps his own knees and stands up, the sound of his last name a bringing down a torrent of doubt. Since they started sleeping together he's only ever been 'Allen' when they're pretending, when they're keeping their secret. He's 'Allen' in front of others, Joe, and Iris, and the other police officers, never when they're alone. He doesn't want Eddie to pretend with him.

But he puts up the camera between them, he has to, the sooner they get through this the sooner they can leave, the sooner he can wrap his arms around the man whose body he's been secretly worshipping for weeks now. Eddie stands back against the wall, eyes downcast as he focuses on the job at hand – the bloody shirt covered in transfer smears, low-velocity spatter, all indicative of a violent beating; the smears on Eddie's face; the breaks in his skin.

He lowers his camera and shakes his head, his vision blurred.

If Eddie was here with him he'd pull closer and hold him, they'd get each other through this; but no, he needs to be strong, _focus on the job_. He scrapes underneath Eddie's fingernails, swabs the inside of his cheek, around his wounds, takes reference samples where he deems necessary, cataloguing each vial with a black marker, sealing it with red tape. It's wrong touching him like this, too cold and disrespectful; he owes Eddie more than this. He's pretty sure he owes Eddie his sanity.

And then comes the absolute last thing he wants to ask.

"I'm gonna need your clothes."

When Eddie looks at him it seems like he returns from another world, maybe one where reality isn't quite so harsh and the man meant to provide love and warmth isn't currently processing him for evidence that might prove misconduct. But Eddie strips like he's told, right down to his boxers, and he can't look at him; he's seen Eddie naked before, though never quite like this.

He offers Eddie some wet wipes for his face and the extra outfit he kept in his locker, grateful that he can at least spare Eddie from having to crawl into one of those white plastic suits they keep around for suspects.

He grants Eddie his privacy while he finishes bagging up his clothes, adding the case number to each label; he loathes to think that tomorrow he'll be examining everything, that he's still expected to make it to the crime scene too, piece this together as if Eddie's the culprit, as if he's the one he's investigating. As if the real crime wasn't an innocent woman getting shot.

It isn't until he hears the clang of Eddie's belt buckle, a sound he never wanted to associate with a situation like this that he turns around, looks at a man grown a little smaller, a little rougher on the outside, and he wonders, is this how Eddie saw him all those weeks ago? Was this why Eddie wanted to fix him? Did he take _pity on him_?

"Eddie," his voice breaks on the first syllable. "What happened?"

Eddie puts his hands to his hips, tears evident in his eyes, and shrugs, fighting, always fighting, fists closed and raised to protect his face, feet apart, ready to take on the world if he has to. "He shot her. Right in front of me. And I–I lost it. I lost it."

Gone is the once strong man working him through a panic attack, telling him to breathe, _breathe, Barry, breathe_, replaced it is a broken man who needs the same in turn from him.

"Hey," –he closes the distance between their bodies, worry in his every step, a deep need to hold Eddie together– "Hey," –his hands on Eddie's face, forehead lowered to his, heart pounding at his ribcage– "It's gonna be okay, do you hear me? No one's going to blame you for this."

Eddie grabs around his wrists and nods, but no sound makes it past his lips. He thumbs along Eddie's cheekbones, and the shorter man winces, so he does the only thing he can think of. He kisses over the broken skin on Eddie's cheek, trembling. Another kiss over the wound in Eddie's left eyebrow, easily reachable with the few inches he has on Eddie.

Eddie's hands fall to his sides and pull at his shirt, dig until his cold battered hands find skin.

A chill runs up his spine but he pushes on, kisses just above the light swelling on Eddie's lips.

He forces Eddie back against the wall, Eddie's lips part against his and he licks inside his mouth, and if at all possible he coils even tighter with worry. His bones howl with a cold he hasn't felt in a long time, ice down his veins, his fingers cold to Eddie's face. But then Eddie's fingers press circles into the bare skin of his hips, that same loving care is right there in his touch, not lost, and he thinks _I need to do this_, I need to be the strong one, if just for a little while.

He eases back, nipping at Eddie's lips, until their foreheads rest together again. "You're okay."

"I'm a mess," Eddie says wryly.

He finds Eddie's eyes, hands still raised to his face, thumbling small circles into his skin. "About time I see you this way too," he jokes with a small huff of a smile, but once again the gravity of his own convictions fails; he didn't want to find out where his comfort zone ended or where Eddie's own demons lived.

Eddie's fingers dig into his hips. "You don't have to do this."

But he does. If anyone's going to stand right by Eddie's side as he digs his way out of his own personal hell it's damn well going to be him. If he can learn what to say and what to do to make Eddie feel better, he'll go the distance.

"Yeah, I do," he whispers.

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**_fin_**

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End file.
